


Stuff I haven't finished (POI)

by Code16, JustifiedGlass (Code16)



Series: as are what motives [4]
Category: Daughterverse - maculategiraffe, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bars, Bratting, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, Dark!Root, Eldritch Abominations, Episode: s01e07 Witness, Episode: s01e17 Baby Blue, Female supremacy, Forced Drinking, Forced Urine drinking, Id Fic, Matriarchy, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Nonverbal Communication, OTK, Omega Verse, Other, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prison, Prostration, Punishment, Rape Aftermath, Self Condemnation, Self-Hatred, Sounding, Spanking, Teleportation, Tentacles, Torture, Unfinished, WIP, Watersports, agony beams, brat!John, brief mention of past noncon, brief mentions of non-current bad experiences, interceding, mentions of tentacle rape, paddles, pick-up play, pre-noncon, presence of alcohol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7340824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/JustifiedGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIPs/stuff unfinished in ways that doesn't make good chapter breaks. If I end up finishing something, it'll become its own work. Meanwhile/otherwise, putting them here.</p><p><i>Chapter 1</i>: (ISA Eldritch verse, the Younger Ones, Spanking)<br/><i>Chapter 2</i>: in end products of (ISA Eldrich verse, punishment, watersports)<br/><i>Chapter 3</i>: (standalone, pre-noncon Elias/John)<br/><i>Chapter 4</i>: (d/s au, brat!John, pick-up play, spanking)<br/><i>Chapter 5</i>: two times in a week (abo verse with the nonconsensual bond, alpha John in his cell, self condemnation)<br/><i>Chapter 6</i>: (fusion with a majorly modified daughterverse, matriarchy/female supremacy, corporal punishment)</p><p>Chapter -> tag guide in the beginning notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (ISA Eldrich verse, the Younger Ones, Spanking)

**Author's Note:**

> My brain tells me this is not a thing one is supposed to do, but, well, that's internalized but it's not true, people get to write etc the way that works for them. So, well - trying.
> 
> {} stands in places where there is content that should go there but does not currently exist. {} with words in between explains what would happen in that place, if needed.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chapter guide** (as in, which tags go with which chapters)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Chapter 1: (ISA Eldritch verse, the Younger Ones, Spanking)_ : Eldritch Abominations, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tentacles, mentions of tentacle rape, Spanking, paddles, OTK, Pain
> 
>  _Chapter 2: in end products of (ISA Eldrich verse, punishment, watersports)_ : Eldritch Abominations, Tentacles, Watersports, Forced Drinking, Forced Urine drinking, Agony Beams, Sounding, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Punishment, Torture, Teleportation
> 
>  _Chapter 3: (standalone, pre-noncon Elias/John)_ : pre-noncon, Episode: s01e07 Witness, Episode: s01e17 Baby Blue, brief mention of past noncon
> 
>  _Chapter 4: (d/s au, brat!John, pick-up play, spanking)_ : John Reese/Original Male Character(s), Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bratting, brat!John, pick-up play, bars, spanking, OTK, consent issues, Nonverbal Communication, brief mentions of non-current bad experiences, presence of alcohol
> 
>  _Chapter 5: two times in a week (abo verse with the nonconsensual bond, alpha John in his cell, self condemnation)_ : Harold Finch (mentioned), mentions of Harold Finch/John Reese, Omega Verse, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha John, Prison, Rape Aftermath, Self Condemnation, Self-Hatred
> 
>  _Chapter 6: (fusion with a majorly modified daughterverse, matriarchy/female supremacy, corporal punishment)_ : Daughterverse - maculategiraffe, Root, Harold Finch & John Reese, Female supremacy, Matriarchy, Agony beams, Corporal Punishment, Alternate Universe, Fusion, interceding, Prostration, Dark!Root, Id Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Younger Ones have been online shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: again, as far as I'm concerned, the eldritch characters here are fully above the elditch abomination version of age of consent for sex with humans, and as such I am not tagging Underage. (They're also, to be clear, the rapists, rather than the other way around). However, their relative immaturity is a pervasive thread here, so if that is the/an element that would be an issue for someone, this is probably a story best avoided.

It doesn’t start as that bad of a day. He’s in the Younger One’s media room again, maybe a foot or two away from its floor. They’re keeping him there, the tentacles almost neutral today - the ones that hold him, the ones that occupy him, explore him with winding touches. Barely hurt at all. With the Younger Ones he can never be sure if that’s on purpose, but he’ll take it while it’s given.

Some further feet away, the Younger Ones arrange themselves on the couch and the floor beneath it in almost a half circle. He thinks they’re playing some sort of game, though not one they seem particularly interested in. Finish a round, maybe, because they stop what they were doing, seem even further bored. The tentacles in him poke more insistently, like they think he’s supposed to be doing something about it. Which seems a bit much to ask, really - unless they’re interested in either army stories or firearms demonstrations, his body is about the limits of what he can provide, and he can’t exactly provide it much more than he already  _ is _ . And while the Elders have him make suggestions sometimes, the Younger Ones never have. 

_ -!-  _ One of the Younger Ones sits up suddenly, abruptly animated.  _ -toy!-   _

_ -toy?-  _ At the word, the others respond in kind, enliven, abandon dejection to pass excitement back and forth.  _ -toy? toy!- _ He doesn’t think they mean him; forgetting about him while using him seems unlikely, even for the Younger Ones.  _ -get! bring!-  _ Definitely not him, then. The One who thought of it first seems to have been appointed the courier. In a moment, some of the tentacles disappear from him and the Younger One vanishes. 

It returns, carrying, of all things, a cardboard box. Shipping box, from what it looks like. The Younger One catches him looking, wraps around it. Tentacles return, reinsert themselves into him, coordinate to flip him over and press his face into the carpet.  _ -No peeking- _

The box must be human items only, because he can’t sense it, but even out of his sight the Younger Ones are clearly apparent. And currently about sparking with glee. 

The Elders have enough control to hold him however they want in any mood they might be in. The Younger Ones don’t. He’s pretty sure they must be opening whatever their prize is, because the tentacles that hold him don’t keep quite still, and the other ones squirm inside him, their owners’ exuberance spilling over into him. Altogether, it means it doesn’t take him long to notice when that mood changes.

_ -I won, I’m first- _

_ -My idea, I’m first!- _

_ -Me, me!- _

Strings of tentacles inside him unwind, start, apparently, fighting. He still can’t move, can’t make a sound, but pain sends sharp edges into him. Even with the work the Elders did on him, some of his orifices are not meant to stretch this much inside.  _ Please _ , he sends at them, despite himself, when they almost certainly won’t even  _ hear.  _

_ -My  _ idea.  _ I  _ remembered _ \-  _ The one that went to get the box, he thinks, is insistent. What must be its tentacles try to wrap the others. The others evade, push back. John tries to hold himself together, literally or figuratively, whichever. They’re better at sharing, usually. Argue but take turns, watch each other-

_ -Watch? Watch!-  _

_ -Fun!- _

The tentacles stop pulling him apart. After a second, maybe two thirds of them disappear, retract off him and out of him. The ones that remain resettle themselves. Lift him up, draw him back towards the couch and the Younger Ones. In a pause, an extra one splits away to cover his eyes. 

Usually, they set him on his knees, or drop him. Today, they keep him almost horizontal, face down, settle him across what feels like its lap. Is, he judges after a moment, almost definitely, though if it’s bothered with genitals or an upper body he can’t tell. The tentacles rearrange again, secure his legs and arms and torso, withdraw out of him. Let him open his eyes again. 

John lets himself readjust to breathing the normal way. Stays where he was put, doesn’t try to turn his head or look anywhere but down. A tentacle, maybe the same one that had blindfolded him, pats his shoulder.  _ -You’re nice. No peeking- _ They don’t communicate at him that directly, much. Haven’t. Maybe it’s a milestone.

_ -surprise,-  _ it explains, also apparently to him. John tries to figure out if he’s supposed to pretend to be happy about that. 

In lieu of that, he considers possibilities. “Toy” isn’t very helpful. The package size might narrow the field down more, though. And the position might suggest insertables, though it would be a question why they would even  _ want _ them. John considers moving his legs apart more, preemptively helpful, but the tentacles holding him don’t seem interested. And in the end of course there isn’t much he can do but stay as he is and wait for whatever happens.

As it turns out, what happens is that it hits him. Not too hard - when he starts, it’s mostly in surprise. That -  _ wasn’t _ what he’d been expecting. It follows it up with two more, one lighter, the other harder. Then another, much harder. 

John runs analysis again. This - isn’t really his area of expertise: usually people go for his face, with fists. Pistol whip him, punch him where he can’t fight back. And he’d experimented with a girlfriend once or twice, but she’d used her hands and hadn’t kept it up long, ended up laughing (at herself, not him, she’d reassured him). The Younger One is fairly obviously not going to use hands, in any form.

It’s smooth, he can tell at any rate. Flat and wide. That and mail order suggest a paddle, or something like it. John presses his forehead into the couch. Really, after everything else, this shouldn’t even be that weird, but-

_ -look now.-  _ It’s paused. John turns his head; apparently the Younger One has stopped keeping secrets. It is a paddle, indeed. Dark brown wood; ⅜ of a inch, he’d guess. The Younger One holds it in a tentacle, wraps the handle.  _ -toy!-  _

_ That’s very nice _ , John finds himself thinking. Cuts himself off in the next moment, hopes the thought didn’t bleed through by accident. He doesn’t know if the Younger Ones can parse condescension, but if they can he doesn’t imagine they’d like it. The paddle disappears from his line of sight, returns to its previous task. Strike by strike again, softer or harder. 

It’s practicing, John realizes after a few more. Modulating force, or just figuring out what it actually wants. The softer ones are barely taps, sometimes. Not even approaching painful. The harder ones, he realizes after about a dozen, are escalating. Which, given that the Younger Ones are fully capable of individually lifting him, the couch, and a refrigerator without straining, that he’s seen, feels like it has more than a chance of becoming a problem. 

The softer ones taper off. The harder ones reach what he’d imagine to be his own full strength, and keep going from there.

John kind of wishes the tentacles in his mouth had stayed; if nothing else, they are effective at enforcing silence on him. Lacking that, he does his best for himself, grits his teeth, presses fingers into his palms. The first time he fails, the One above him pauses again. 

_ -Shh!-  _ It doesn’t reprimand him, which is something, not that he had any way of knowing that it also wanted him quiet. It touches his mark, then his throat. John feels the movement-that-isn’t in them. Knows he won’t be able to make a sound if he tries, now. He can’t tell if he’s grateful. The Younger One resettles him across its lap. Continues.

John notices when the paddle breaks over him mostly because one of the pieces falls directly in his line of sight. Above him, the Younger One freezes. The others, mostly unobtrusive in captivated attention until this point, follow the same.

John stays carefully still. If he doesn’t draw attention to himself, it’s slightly more likely they’ll find an outlet for their displeasure that isn’t him. (Slightly). (Not particularly). But the Younger Ones seem to have thought ahead for once.

 

{ _they have another one_. _It stops practicing after a bit and starts just hitting him_ }

 

John has dealt with considerably worse than a wooden paddle. In his life, and, well, in about the last week. He should be grateful, really, if anything. That that’s all it is. Five minutes, and he can hold that attitude easily. Ten and he mostly can. 

By fifteen it’s becoming a strain. 

By twenty, more so.

He feels like something should be going numb by now - his nerves, his skin. But that’s one of those things his body doesn’t do anymore. The strikes may come faster than he can count, sometimes, but his body will register them all just the same.

Sometimes, the rhythm breaks more, distinct, defined blows with higher force again. His body jerks with them, futily. Other times, the harder ones come in a flurry themselves, too fast for even involuntary reflex. 

By forty-five minutes, John finds himself mostly wishing they could stop already.


	2. in end products of (ISA Eldritch verse, punishment, watersports)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John gets in trouble with eldritch abominations for trying to piss on the floor", or "alright, I get it, I have this kink"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place earlier in John's time with the eldritch abominations.
> 
> Note: In my evaluation, this is or approaches the 'graphic depictions of violence' parallel level of watersports/urine drinking. Please be warned accordingly. 
> 
> Separate warning for moment of ableism from one of the eldritch abominations.

Technically, John knows that he’s allowed to be here. He’s not on a mission and not under confinement - if no one (if none of  _ Them _ ) at this moment want him, he is, in fact, perfectly permitted to walk through the compound. 

Which is fine, another item for the it-could-be-worse list he’s started keeping in his head, except that walking, of course, is not the issue at hand. John stops at the end of a cross-hallway. Tries not to shift from foot to foot too much as he takes a look around, checking, again, that no one was in sight. (One might think that being fucked repeatedly in the middle of a conference hall would take care of whatever traces of self-consciousness he had left. One would not, apparently, be correct.) 

There’s carpet here, that typical bland office building type, which he figures is the best he’s getting. Inhibitions still present themselves across him - considerateness for staff was a lesson drummed into him often enough and early enough, and while he can’t say it was not among the rules of better living he’s had plenty of occasion to violate in his career, this is, in some sense, a new low. But at this point it’s this or piss himself. Or go back to that receptacle of theirs (of Theirs) for ‘collection’, and damned if he was doing that. At least there wouldn’t literally be a puddle on the floor. 

Pushing past inhibitions is something he’s certainly had extensive practice in, at the least. John undoes his fly, pulls out his dick - and freezes, suddenly, from one moment to the next, like the tentacles he’s come to be rather familiar with have grabbed him without the intermediate step of being visible. Gripped him internally, too - however much he had to devote active effort to stop this process a moment ago, now none of his efforts are sufficient to cause it to begin. He feels a touch in his mind, a glance like one might expect at an aforementioned puddle. The tentacles tighten and take him into nothing with them.

\--

They reappear in an office. Minimalist, almost entirely white; he fights not to fall over as the possibly-tentacles release him. 

“You can put that away, you won’t be needing it for at least a few minutes.” His vision clears enough to see the room’s other occupant at about the same moment as he realizes he’s still holding his dick. It - she - is in full human form today, would be indistinguishable to most of anyone who might come into this office. Has not gone the extra step of making herself indistinguishable to him, something like mild veiled menace beyond her at the edge of his awareness, like a gauze shroud over a claymore mine. Some level of obstinacy makes him want not to do as he’s told. “Or I can put it away, if you’d prefer.” Her inflection is businesslike, almost neutral. Her face, as she watches him fasten his fly again, is the same. John makes a decision not to glare; on the list of bodyparts he’d like to keep, his eyes rather outrank his genitals. 

“Possibly more than a few minutes,” she notes thoughtfully. Claymore mine, he knows, is the sight of a star from earth to the star’s reality, the bare corner of something folded away. He’s been hit by Their presences before - mildly, he’d been informed, not that it felt that way. She, today, doesn’t bother with horror, or terror; carries directly to agony. 

John collapses. Can’t tell if he screams, because his auditory centers were not spared emergency power. Would beg, if the ability to remember words existed, let alone form them, had been left to him. Doesn’t actually realize he’s on the floor until suddenly he is, his systems returned to him like a switch being flipped. A switch with booting time - some moments later, there’s enough progress that he remembers where he is. Generally as well as immediately.

“That was also mild, if you were wondering.” She hasn’t moved, he doesn’t think. No change in her voice. “And now that we have that out of the way. Stand up.” For a moment, John is not entirely convinced he can, the systems of it so barely back online. “Don’t be overdramatic, if I want something debilitating, I use it.” She is, as it turns out, correct. He’s shaky, and the process takes considerably more time and energy than he remembers being usual, but he is, in the end, on his feet. He almost has to stop himself from leaning into the (still invisible, apparently) tentacles when they return. 

\--

Another twist takes him back to the hallway. The same one, he confirms, when the sense behind reality stops heaving. He’s pretty sure he’s even standing in the same place. 

“Well. Go ahead.” This time she’s standing behind him. “You did want to. Considerably.” John considers definitions of mild. Goes for his fly again. When he’s done (however it might feel, this is not a situation he’ll be applying the word ‘relief’ to), she points him to the ground. “Lick it off the floor.” This time, he’s quite sure. 

“I - can’t,” he points out to her, not actually able to convince himself she doesn’t know that.

“Give it your best attempt.” And, what else is there to do. John gets on his knees next to the part of the carpet now soaked through. Lowers his head to it. 

His best attempt, of course, still leaves much to be desired. He can lick the carpet, which is about equally pleasant and effective. He can press down on it, and watch liquid pool up, but while that’s enough for taste, it’s not really enough for consumption. 

“Enough.” John gets back up on his knees, tries to spit lint out of his mouth. The One reaches into the air and produces a glass. John senses motion-that-isn’t, watches the carpet dry as the glass fills up. She hands it to him when it’s done. 

“Drink it.” After everything else, he still hesitates. “I can force it down your throat if you’d prefer, but for current and future reference, however many times I do that, they will not count.” John had spent some amount of time avoiding water, attempting, with obvious futility, to address the problem from its other end. At this point, he’s somewhat wishing he hadn’t. The One watches him drink, waits until he’s finished.

“Point the first. When we want something, we achieve it. We don’t require your cooperation, we merely find it convenient.” She refills the glass (the carpet is completely dry, at this point), hands it to him. Waits again. 

“Point the second. Your personal preferences, and whatever related concepts, are not relevant. From experience, I do not imagine you’ll become accustomed to this immediately - better as that might be for you - but I would suggest you begin trying.” She takes the glass, puts it away again. Her tentacles return a third time. 

\--

This time, he’s dropped into a chair. Leans against it before he can consider stopping himself again. His vision clears enough that he can see the desk.

It’s not the same glass again, like he was somewhat expecting. It’s not a set of glasses. It’s one glass, and a set of pitchers, lined up neatly in a grid, straight lines across the desk.

{}  
  


”Generally this wouldn’t be good for you - even this much water wouldn’t be good for you. But I’ve taken care of that.”

{}

It’s nauseating almost immediately. Hurts before too long. He throws up repeatedly, ends up on the floor again, body seizing, acid in his throat. She watches him. Restores the floor to a presentable state once he’s not on it. Waits for him to get up, pick up a pitcher again. 

{}

”Come over here.” She’s by the desk. He makes it off the floor again. This time she pulls his pants down all the way, herself and without touching him. Produces a thin red rod, sets it at the tip of his dick. The tentacles are suddenly there, stop him from moving, though they don’t seem to care about sound. John flinches back in all the space he has. It burns, like salt in a wound or a prank or dare with the wrong kind of pepper. Or pepper spray, possibly. She inserts it without excessive force (as far as he can tell. Alternatively, maybe it punched a hole in him and he didn’t notice the difference). She stands back.

“Your privileges over this aspect of your function are hereby revoked. They will be restored at my discretion.” His pants fasten themselves again. “Until then, it will occur when I decide, and not otherwise. Sit down.” He sits. Has no chance of holding still, barely stops himself from grabbing his dick or curling around it. She hands him a glass, fills it. “Your privileges of consuming water are hereby also revoked. You’ll be provided with the alternative. If you at any point need me to demonstrate my statement about forcing it down your throat, I can make myself available to do so.” She takes the glass from him when he’s done, turns it in her hand before sending it away. ”That being said.” The rod still in him intensifies like a brand, sends his body curling around itself after all. She holds it for maybe ten seconds, lets it go.   

”I’d like to make it clear that I do not appreciate needing to dedicate my quite valuable time to the rather tedious task of correcting you. As far as I am aware, you are, by your standards, fully grown. This is not an area in which you should require assistance. We expect you to know better. As such, your privileges of free movement are hereby also revoked. When you are not taking care of your - other - needs or otherwise in demand, you can consider yourself remanded personally to myself, where you may endeavor to compensate me for my trouble. Should I be adequately satisfied I will consider making that an end to this affair. You may begin currently.”   

She sits down at her desk. The chair under him disappears suddenly, sending him to the floor. John pulls himself to his knees, crawls to the space under the surface. Her own clothes are of course not an obstacle to her. “Feel quite free to let me know if you require fluids,” she says. Spreads her legs apart. John can’t clench his teeth, because he needs his mouth. Sinks his fingers into his thighs, presses in with his fingernails. Keeps his hands off his dick, knows it wouldn’t help if he didn’t. Begins trying.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the [Merriam-Webster definition of urine](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/urine). (Yes, seriously).


	3. (standalone, pre-noncon Elias/John)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started writing for a [prompt on the POI kinkfest](https://the-ragnarok.dreamwidth.org/36632.html?thread=273176#cmt273176) -
>
>> Elias/John dub con tentacles!: John makes a different deal with Elias to save Leila. He's thinking blowjob, but it turns out Elias is not exactly human.
> 
> but it didn't actually get to the point where the tentacles happened. So currently just pre-noncon (note, the prompt said dubcon, but I do see mine as full non-).
> 
> Quotes from 1.07 and 1.17.

“I thought about killing you, John. But I realize that that would seem ungrateful. Besides, how do you take the life of someone so talented? I could really use a guy like you in my organization.” Elias smiles, his hand suddenly coming much nearer, as though he means to brush John’s cheek with it. “Not that there aren’t other uses I could think of.” 

John doesn’t let himself flinch back, doesn’t let his gaze waver. Hands tied to the railing or not, he doesn’t think Elias could actually overpower him. Payment for the not-killing, then. (He’s known people who’d have said they’d rather die, but even if he’d ever taken that as his approach, he couldn’t afford to, now. Not with Finch back at the library, not with more numbers to help. Not with how many of those numbers they might get because he’d just saved this one. As it is, this - isn’t exactly a first time.) 

“Should I open my mouth, or are you going to take my pants off?” Elias smiles wider, to all appearances entirely delighted. 

“Oh, I knew you were special, John. But I’m afraid I’m a little short on time, now. Another time, maybe. I wish you luck, John. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours. Professionally.” Well there was a conditional. Not that it mattered - whatever Elias defined as staying out of his way, John was pretty sure it wouldn’t be happening.

“What if I don't?” 

Elias sounds almost fond. “Then we'll meet again under less pleasant circumstances. I would sincerely grieve that loss.” 

John waits until Elias is entirely out of range to start untying his hands. Decides to mostly avoid thinking about what circumstances Elias would find more pleasant.

\---

Really, John was a bit surprised Elias didn’t have his men shoving John to his knees when he’d first gone to ask for his help. (“ _ I’m all out of moves, Finch. Risk is all I’ve got left. _ ” It wasn’t like he hadn’t know what else, exactly, he had left.

_ “Why would he even agree to meet with you?” “Because he’ll be curious.”  _ Not that he would have said that part, to Finch. Somehow, he was pretty sure Harold would have objected). 

But Elias - still with the smile and the fondness, still with his eyes on John ( _ “the boss has a soft spot for you” _ ) never crossed the distance between them, let the conversation stay on its business subject with no extra comments, without a counteroffer. John should have known, then, that it was too good to be true. 

  
  


_ “Sorry, boss had a change of heart.”  _ John doesn’t resist when Leila is taken out of his arms, doesn’t resist when his hands are cuffed, doesn’t resist when he is, in fact, pushed to his knees this time. 

“We had an agreement,” he says to Elias when the latter shows up again; knows as he’s saying it that it’s for form. They didn’t have an agreement, not really. Elias had given him something, and now he’s about to find out what exactly Elias actually wants in return.

“We did,” agrees Elias. “And there was a problem I had thought you could help me with, with the right incentive. But as it happens, I’ve just gotten some very good news. Unfortunately, John, in my line of work, business has to come before pleasure. But once the business is taken care of-” he gives John that friendly smile again. “Well, I realized there is something else you could do for me.” 

John doesn’t test his handcuffs. It would be a waste of time, when it’s not the bindings keeping him here. Not even the guns still trained on him.

“What did you do with the baby?” He can’t see Leila anymore, or hear her. 

“She’s right over there, John.” At Elias’s gesture John’s allowed to turn his head, catch a glimpse of the nearby car, the slip of pink through the window. “James there has his own little one at home, no need to worry about him. And I hardly have need for a baby. Do what I want, John, and both of you are entirely free to leave.”

“What guarantee do I have?” It’s a throw with nothing to stake it. He will, without hesitation, let every single gang member he’s encountered today fuck him, if that’s the best hope he has of getting Leila out of this.

“You don’t.” 

“You know what I’m going to say,” he points out. Elias wouldn’t be doing this, if he didn’t. Elias didn’t start games he didn’t think he was going to win.

“Of course, John. I’d still like to hear you say it.” 

“Explicit verbal consent? Didn’t know you went for that.” He probably shouldn’t antagonize Elias. But on the other hand, he’s pretty sure Elias might enjoy it more, like this.

“Don’t insult your own intelligence, John. Unless you really would want to do this with me, if you had a choice you didn’t dislike so much the worse. No, I have no need for your consent. Acquiescence, on the other hand-” 

“Yes.” John doesn’t grit his teeth. What does it matter, indulging whatever kink Elias has. Not as though he hasn’t indulged worse.

“I’m very glad to hear that John.”

Elias steps forward towards him. John wonders if he’s about to be dragged or ordered up and taken somewhere more conducive, or if he’s supposed to be taking his clothes off. Which is going to be a bit more challenging, with the cuffs. 

“Don’t worry about your clothes, John. They won’t be in the way.” Well. John hasn’t had water in a while now, too busy, but his saliva production seems fine. And if that’s all it is, he really will be getting lucky. Seems hardly worth all the theatrics, really. “And don’t worry about my people. They won’t see anything I wouldn’t want them to.” Did Elias think John was self-conscious? Not that he enjoys the audience (not that he’s anticipating enjoying any of this), not that there isn’t a part of him almost nauseous with the desire to be  _ not here _ \- but at the end of it, it’s not like he really has reason to care, for their opinion.

Elias walks all the way up to him. “You see, John, you were right that I too am subject to rules. And things don’t always fall into place the way I want them to. But sometimes, I’ve found that they do. I think it’s only right to appreciate that completely.”


	4. (d/s au, brat!John, pick-up play, spanking)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a different d/s au than my other one. 
> 
> See end notes for elaboration on consent issues and warnings.
> 
> Thank you to [the_ragnarok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok) for edit help.

The dom at the middle left of the bar is looking back at him.

The thing about looking to be picked up in a place like this is not investing hope or becoming set on someone over-quickly. Attractive dom, the kind of bearing that makes his heart beat a bit faster, nice voice - if he’s done what he can and they’re not looking, then such is life and on to the next. 

But this one’s looking.

The second thing about looking to be picked up is being upfront. The dom’s eyes linger on him, and John waits till they’re close enough to his face to give his best insolent smirk. Arranged his body language to match, meets the dom’s eyes with cheerful impertinence. Some doms just turn away at that point. Which is the idea -  meeting incompatibility is a fact of going out like this, soonest determined the better, on to the next. (The ones who shake their heads or roll their eyes he figures he’s well rid of. The ones who go trying to hit him in the not-fun way - well, he tries not to visit the places that tends to happen, these days. Mostly.)

This dom’s none of the above. Keeps his eyes on John, smiles slightly, undisturbed, indulgent.  _ Well then now.  _ Doesn’t stand up either -  sweeps another once-over, non-covert pushing flagrant, and is back to his drink. John gets up from his seat. Time to earn what he’s got coming.

 

At the bar, the dom pays him no attention yet. Looks across to the tv, hand a few inches from his drink. Approaches come in varieties, but John’s known what mood he was in since he walked in the door. He picks up the shot glass and drains it in a motion. 

No surprise, attention’s back on him. He gives it as good as he gets, matches body language to his voice now.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you using that?”

The third thing about it is that risks get backup. However confident he feels in their intimations, some seconds of eye-flirting fun aren’t surety. He has the money to pay for the drink in his pocket, a proper apology for the dom and the bar ready on his tongue. 

This look is slower, deliberate entirely. A different smile. John feels himself responding, familiar excitement circulating out like a more potent antecedent to the alcohol. 

“Did you think that penalties for misuse of property are more forgiving if it is not in use?” John lets himself smile more broadly, leans on the counter. Money, apology, recede firmly elsewhere and stay there. 

“I don’t know, how much more or less forgiving are we talking?”

Sometimes, this part goes on a while. Tonight the dom shifts his place, hand suddenly on the back of John’s neck (not his favorite, but he’ll take it). 

“Oh, very much.” One push against the counter, and John has barely enough time to leave the shot glass before he’s being propelled away and off across the floor. (The switch who’d been to his right applauds briefly. John thinks it’s a bit of a shame he doesn’t get the chance to bow).

\--

The relevant corner of the bar isn’t empty, but isn’t overcrowded either. There’s a surface or two free, a few chairs. The dom settles himself in one of the latter without letting go of John (John ducks enough to make it possible but doesn’t kneel; the dom keeps holding but doesn’t push), raises his other hand to call for a server. Waits a few moments before putting his first hand down. 

“Well, get where you belong now.” Sometimes this part goes on a while too  _ (Clearly that comfortable chair right there is just what you meant, sir).  _ It’s also the part where he could go grab a table, were he so inclined. (Some doms try to ignore the difference between the two, drag a sub back like  _ their _ opinions on position are the only ones that count. John’s never had much compunctions about safewording on those, nor demonstrating the extensive differences between willing and unwilling dragging, nor stepping in for others if needed. But a lap sounds just fine tonight, and John doesn’t feel much like waiting either.) John puts his hand on his waistband, pauses long enough for a no or a headshake or a ‘don’t you worry, drink didn’t cost  _ that _ much’ that would mean all clothes should be staying on this time. With none forthcoming, the pants go down to his knees, the dom’s jeans rough against his skin as he arranges himself. The bar’s no genital nudity, but John’ll take skin contact if he can get it.

The dom hitches up his shirt, runs a hand over John’s ass and thighs. 

“Been a while since you’ve had a lesson?” Not really the kind of contact he has in mind, that, not this early in things. John doesn’t relax into it but doesn’t tense, diverts his mind by sending it to memory. 

“About a month?” He doesn’t bruise that easily, heals pretty fast. When it comes to the possessive sort, the aftersigns of his work have brought him more incidents than any souvenirs from past liaisons. Though this dom seems to be for other directions than jealousy.

“Such neglect.” The touching hasn’t stopped but hasn’t escalated. Nothing John can’t stand, but really, there’s a limit on how much he wants to be standing things around now. He wiggles his ass, moves slightly across the dom’s lap.

“Yeah, feeling kind of neglected here.” That gets him a slap, sharp and solid; not center but close enough. John almost hums. Not that he hasn’t gone longer, but on that one, he’s afraid they’re going to have to agree. A month is kind of a while. 

When nothing follows, John wiggles again, is rewarded (or punished, perhaps, but isn’t that the point) with two more, one to each side at the bottom of his ass.

“If you’re hoping to tire out my hand before I get some proper tools in it, you’re going to be disappointed.” John’s considering between saying something about disappointment and doing his best silent impression of exaggerated-innocence-when-he-is-indeed-innocent when they’re interrupted by the server. 

John doesn’t bother looking up while the dom’s making selections. He’s not picky, and anything he’d mind being hit with he doesn’t think the bar’s renting out. It takes him a moment, a louder excuse me, and the dom tapping his back to realize the server’s trying to get his attention. He turns his head after all, follows the server’s gesture to the side table. Clear acrylic paddle and a leather one with the bar’s brand cut into it - the dom must have put his selections there. And, better than not minding, even.

“Color?” The server’s tone is entirely businesslike, not worried. Must be policy, then. And a nicer bar than even he’d thought. John gives a thumbs up and a smile.

“Green.” That seems to complete the transaction. The server departs again, John arranges himself back all the way down. A slap lands hard on his left thigh; a moment later another on his right.

“I recall you said something about feeling neglected.” More now, on his ass as well as his thighs, spreading around. “That really won’t do at all.” John turns his body into the fabric of the dom’s shirt as the slaps warm up his skin, as the dom’s breathing starts coming more audibly over him. 

There’s a pause when the dom picks up a paddle.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re alcohol: There is a bit of John having a drink. It is not in excess and he does not experience impairment, but this does happen before play.
> 
> Elaboration on consent issues: a person I discussed this with said it could be described as 'tv levels of consent', except on tv this tends to magically work out just fine anyway.
> 
> John is doing pick-up play at bar. This is something he wants and he will consider the overall experience [net] positive.
> 
> There is no explicit negotiation and there are things done by nonverbal communication with a stranger. There are descriptions of things people do to check and act in accordance with their partner's consent etc under these circumstances, and there are descriptions of things that happen where characters did not do that. John has some internalized domism and has some pieces of experience that, had his parter or his society done better, should not have happened.
> 
> There are also brief mentions of non-current experiences with more severe domism and nonconsensual acts.


	5. two times in a week (abo verse with the nonconsensual bond, alpha John in his cell, self condemnation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasn’t working well for me (but)). 
> 
> cw thoughts of abuse, of self injury, circumstances surrounding rape, drug mentions

John notices the guard in his peripheral vision as soon as he appears at the end of the hall. Doesn’t pay him much attention - it’s not the right time for a meal (or pills or injections or the cups of multicolored fluids) and his imaginings that some guard might be moved enough to find a quiet moment and come do more than glare at him seem unlikely to come true, at this point. 

He’s lying on the bed again. The guards don’t like it when he tries the floor - makes him too hard to see, probably. He’s compromised by dragging off the bedding, laying himself down on the bare metal underneath. It’s still better than what he’s had, or deserves. (He will not, will not think about that other bed, the sheets so soft against his overheated skin, soaked with the omega’s essence so it surrounded him. The same sheets, dried hard and bunched around him (them), some part of him wanting to clutch at them when the Dynamic Special Section betas dragged him away).

He gets up and paces, sometimes. Imagines how it might feel to throw himself into one of the walls, hit the bare brick or the metal of the bed until his hands could bleed. They’d restrain him, probably, bring a new set of syringes, maybe, and he longs for it almost as much as for-. Except they might tell him, Harold (he shouldn’t think his name he has no right) or he might find out and maybe he’d be glad for it but maybe not and John doesn’t know so he can’t, shouldn’t, won’t. 

The guard knocks on the bars. John turns his head on the second time (what could any of it  _matter_ ), arranges his face into paying attention.

“He wants to see you.” 

John sits up in an instant; his head spins again and he couldn’t care less, he-. “No.” 

“Yeah, not up to you. Or me.”


	6. (fusion with a majorly modified daughterverse, matriarchy/female supremacy, corporal punishment)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *possibly runs away*
> 
> Anyway, so I wrote this... over a year ago at this point, and I kept meaning to put it up at some point (including for No Shame November) and kept not getting to it.
> 
> Background: this comes from a dark AU of a fusion with a modified version of maculategiraffe's [Daughterverse](http://maculategiraffe.livejournal.com/126266.html), an in-progress original fic. 
> 
> Verse elements carried over:
> 
>   * Women have magic and are the socially in-power group. Men as a group are in a kind of slavery-ish position.
>   * The followed religion is a monotheistic religion of the Goddess, called Gaia.
>   * (This one doesn't come up but it relates to a different point.) Men can be taken into the 'protection' of a particular woman, basically making her their owner. She is then called their protectrix.
>   * Women use pain-causing magic on men.
>   * Prostration.
> 

> 
> Verse elements differing from the original
> 
>   * Different aesthetic for both the verse and the magic.
>   * More differences among the power different women have, including in the details of the pain-causing.
>   * Different system for handling men without a protectrix (including the new word/role 'executrix').
>   * Corporal punishment.
> 

> 
> Thanks to enemyofperfect for chat talks and early support!

Root’s not in the best of moods that day. He can tell from the morning, from noticing Shaw with her, even as she hasn’t spoken to him yet, or come into a room with him. John notes to himself to be diligent in deference, the possibility for getting through the day with a a warning shock or two and maybe a few stripes and that’s not particularly bad for a day, really.

It wouldn’t have been.

They’re in the main room when Root finally does come in, John reading at the table, Harold intent on the computers. John slides off his chair, kneels down, doesn’t raise his eyes. Good form, prompt reaction - even his protocol teacher, known for severity, still a vivid memory in his mind for it, might have given him full marks. (Whatever her mood, Root is strict about protocol. Shaw isn’t; John’s pretty sure he could respond to her walking in by standing on his head and facing the opposite direction, and she wouldn’t so much as shock him.) Harold - Gaia, Harold  _ hadn’t _ seen Root that morning, and John hadn’t told him, how could he have been that  _ thoughtless-.  _ Harold doesn’t react, absorbed in whatever his screens show him. Root walks toward him, John’s body is tense everywhere with wanting to do something, but he’s across the room, no way to draw Harold’s attention that wouldn’t draw Root’s more.

John knows Harold well enough to read the moment when the nonreaction goes from the engrossment in which he might, on some level, have not quite noticed, to realization, to paralysis.  _ Turn around, Harold,  _ John finds himself almost begging silently, because computers are Root’s work, her corner in the world, even on such a day she might be moved to empathy, might forgive a few seconds’ hesitation, give a warning and have it ended. But Harold, his fingers on the keyboard suddenly almost still, tight and shaking, faces his screen like he’s tethered, like Root is a predator who might overlook him if only he doesn’t move.

Root stops a few feet away. 

“Good morning, Harold.” On a kinder day, it might have been an invitation to another chance - respond correctly, accept the warning, and on from there. (John knows, entirely, that however he might dread the next minutes or what follows, Root is a more merciful executrix than many, forbearing with Harold’s particularities as many wouldn’t be. Still finds himself thanking Gaia, some nights, some days, that Harold had never met Kara, that they weren’t with someone like her). But it isn’t, now, and John knows Harold knows it isn’t. 

A woman, John has been told, would be able to feel Root’s power, if it’s gathered, if it acts. John can’t, but he knows Harold’s body; can tell beyond doubt, however much he wants to pray it could be otherwise, that Harold doesn’t turn his chair. Root turns it, not touching, and then Harold’s facing Root, trembling in that suppressed way that still reminds John there’s years of Harold’s past he knows nothing of. 

“You’re much too comfortable in that chair. Get up.”John winces at the allusion that’s all too clear, but at last, at least, the involution seems to break. Harold stands, eyes down as his head can’t be, pushes the chair back and away.  And John knows his cue, when he hears it. 

Forehead to the ground, pitch his voice so she’ll still hear him. John knows by now that his pleas will not be welcomingly received, will get him nothing but his own punishment. Doesn’t care. If the most he can do is to split Root’s attention, then he’ll do that, and be fortunate for it. 

“If my executrix might be gracious-” He doesn’t get past six words today. Cut off by the shock, not severe but substantial, like a kick in the gut. 

“John, the item in your pocket, take it out and put it on.” John kneels up to find the gag, fits it into his mouth, waits for the flick of power with which Root fastens it. 

“Bring me items 9 and 11 from the drawer.” For a moment, John has reason to be glad for the gag. 11’s a strap, 9’s a rubber paddle - could that not be overly severe, he might have said, it was only a few moments after all. And if he’s due a discussion of what ‘severe’ means, he’d rather have it not in front of Harold. Instead, he presses his head to the floor again, makes his body a silent plea.  _ He didn’t mean it, it’s not insolence, it’s only- _ Root shocks him again, still momentary but with more force behind it - might have knocked him over, maybe, had he been standing. “That means now, John.”

John rises to go to the drawer (when they’d been in one place long enough to unpack, Kara had hung hers on the wall. John will admit he appreciates the alternative, and not only for Harold’s sake). He kneels again to present them. Has enough time, before resuming his prone position, to see the thicker wires crawling out of Root’s sleeves to wind around the handles of the tools he’d given her. (It’s an appropriate position for him to take, at these times, penitent while he waits his turn. It also hides his eyes. Harold prefers it, when John doesn’t look.)

“Harold,” says Root. And John doesn’t really need to look, though. He knows what he’s not seeing, knows what part of his table Harold keeps carefully clear, the shaped pillow in the drawer under that’s permitted to support his hips, his upper body, head, how his fly has buttons and not a zipper and he unfastens them one by one. How he tries to let the table and the pillow take his weight, clenches his hands on the edge. 

But it’s the sound that he can’t escape. The paddle against skin, so  _ loud _ when it hits directly - Root has as good aim with her power as the best of disciplinarians have with their hands; doesn’t misjudge, doesn’t miss. John wonders if Shaw can hear from wherever she is, or if she’s not even in the building now. The wet gasps Harold makes, suppressed, almost strangled, like he’s desperate to take the beating in silence, squeezes the sound but it escapes in pieces between his fingers. (John is torn, always, between the knowledge that it’s barely audible, that he doesn’t always hear it, knows it so well only by memory. And the absolute impression that the sound has filled the room, bears down on him with a weight like the deepest bell in a tower, shakes through the walls and floor and into his bones). 

He couldn’t miss it though, when the first sound changes. Louder through the air, different on impact -  _ it’ll be over soon _ , John can think. (Sometimes he’s fit into the middle - glad, to think he might give Harold a reprieve, still entertaining likely futile hope of tiring Root’s power on his body, less left over at the end to resume. But surely she would have summoned him by now, were it that.)

“John.” He’s not been told to kneel up, but he knows she can tell that he attends - to her voice, to the sudden pause in the rhythm. (Harold’s voice, soft sobbing now, almost constant, remains. But John can’t let it have all of him, now.  _ Over soon- _ ). “You know where the restraints are. Bring them to me.”  _ Please no _ . John hasn’t needed to be restrained for a beating since before coming here; what he’s earned now is not such an outlier. Not for him, then. John doesn’t move, still, wonders if he could turn his thoughts into emotions she might read.  _ Surely it’s been enough, surely there’s no need _ . “Also 6,” Root adds. John almost flinches at her voice before he parses it, that it  _ is _ her voice and not a shock. “You can place it on your table. At the moment.” 6 is a cane, on the table means it’s for him, at the moment means the next time it won’t be. If a shock is the waymarker of losing patience, this is the limit. John stands up, goes to the chest of drawers again.

She doesn’t take them from him, when he offers them. The cane’s on the table; Harold had screamed once, under it, like John had only heard him under Gaia’s power. Maybe it’s better, even, for Harold, that this be John, and not Root’s power binding him down. John stands again. 

Harold shakes under his hands. His legs, where John fastens them to the table’s. His whole body when John gets up, finds Harold’s wrists above his hands’ death grip on the table edge. He’s sobbing still, quietly. Whispers something not in English, clearly not to John. Probably not to Root. Won’t look at John. ( _ I’m sorry _ , John tries to say, with his touch where he can’t any other way.  _ I tried, I swear _ . It’s not near enough).

Delaying is a risk. John might have waited, for a warning shock, but they could be past warnings, now. He goes back to his place, is preempted, again, by Root.

“Chair.” John himself has a fairly basic zipper. Leans over the arm of the chair, partially watches Root’s wire drag the cane across the table and off, towards him. (He knows the theory of it perfectly well - the way Root’s physical technopathy can work as telekinesis if she uses it right; how a limited pattern to follow can ‘loop’ telekinesis, achieve tasks that would be exhausting if seen as independent motions. It’s still weird to  _ see _ , not power but a physical tool literally hanging in air, the wire wrapped around the handle like an invisible wielder’s hand. (Not invisible of course, but across the room Root watches him, the power he cannot feel held in her hands, deciding when the pattern starts again)).

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
